


50 Mystrade Ficlets

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AUs, Angst, Celebrating 55 followers on Tumblr, Ficlets, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Short ficlets, happy endings, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-29 18:35:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13932885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: These are a series of ficlets, short fiction pieces (I hesitate to call them drabbles because I think they're too long, despite the loose definition being 500 words), inspired by one-word prompts from my followers on Tumblr, because I wanted to celebrate passing the 50 follower mark.Over the last two years since losing my best friend and soulmate, Heather, everyone on Tumblr, particularly the Mystrade crew, have quite honestly saved my life and my sanity. So thanks, guys. These little one-shots are prompted by all of you and are my thank you. I hope you enjoy.





	1. Alienated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egmon73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73/gifts), [brooklyn09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklyn09/gifts).



> This one is the prompt from egmon73 which is 'Alienated'.

“Before you, I felt...cut off, left out,” Mycroft said, watching the chaos of a Lestrade family birthday unfold around him. He was sitting at the large well-scrubbed farmhouse table in the Lestrade-Lucas family home in the Loire Valley, cradling a glass of rather fine sauvignon blanc from the family vineyard. Maria, Greg’s sister, was cooking dinner, helped (and hindered) by her four sisters-in-law, plus their eldest children, plus Grand'Mere Lucille, Matriarch of the Lucas family. The menfolk were drinking beer, and discussing politics and sport, while trying not to look as though they were minding the kids outside in the garden. Periodically, several of their charges would dash into the kitchen chasing each other and shouting at the tops of their voices, to be berated by the women, and chased out again, whereupon the men would be berated for not keeping a weather eye on them. 

Mycroft looked... _content,_ Greg thought, watching him with affection that threatened to spill over. Greg’s niece, Natasha, was turning six and the family had gathered to celebrate, an event which Greg had hesitated to invite his partner to, because he knew his own family and the fact that Mycroft favoured peace and quiet. He need not have worried. They had welcomed Mycroft with open arms and he had seemed to accept the chaos in a bemused fashion. Tasha had adopted ‘Oncle Meecroff,” and adored the plush shaggy dog they had bought her. 

“Alientated,” Mycroft said, dropping the word into the conversation like a baited hook, sipping more wine immediately after. He was sure the wine was going to his head. He was more uninhibited than usual. A part of him couldn’t have cared less. 

“Pardon?” Greg was slow to catch up. 

“Alienated,” Mycroft repeated. “Before I met you, I felt alienated. From everyone. From my colleagues, from life, most especially from _family_. I was shut out of anything... _normal_. Your family are normal...”

Greg snorted. “Define _normal,_ ” he replied, grimacing. “I don’t think my family and that word should be included in the same sentence.”

“Your family are most definitely normal...well, more normal than others…” Mycroft hiccupped softly. “What I mean to say is...I don’t feel alienated here. I feel... _accepted_. Included. Wanted.” 

Greg tried not to wince at that last comment. “Of course you’re wanted, Gorgeous,” he said gently. “Always.” 

Mycroft shook his head. “You don’t understand…” he began but at that moment, Tasha dashed in from the garden where she had been playing with her friends, her siblings, and her many cousins, and grabbed ‘Oncle Meecroff’ by the hand, attempting to drag him outside. 

“Tasha, Tasha, qu'est-ce que tu veux, ma petite chérie?” Mycroft asked, laughing, barely managing to put the glass down without spilling.

“Joue avec nous,” she squealed, demanding. _Play with us_. Mycroft glanced at Greg and shrugged. 

“Needs must,” he said with a smile. Greg watched him go, wondering. Then he laughed and shook his head, following him outside. His brother-in-law, Henri, passed him a beer. 

He watched as his partner played hide and seek with his niece and the rest, still wondering. This was a new side to his lover. _Alienated no more, at any rate,_ he thought, and he would go a Hell of a long way to prevent Mycroft feeling that way ever again. 


	2. Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was from the lovely Lilynevin on Tumblr, Brooklyn09 on AO3, 'wound', so this is for you. 
> 
> I make no apologies for the Three Garidebs reference...

“Ow, ow, that...hurts...ow, Mycroft…”

“Gregory, please. Stop squirming and let me...Drat. Now look what you made me do.” There was a sharp smell of antiseptic as the bottle tipped, spilling its contents on the bathroom floor. “I have half a mind to make you clean everything up.”

“Yes, dad…”

“And for that, you shall be punished.”

“You can’t. I’m injured.”

“You call this injured?”

“Yeah, wounded in action, Myc.”

“Wounded. In action. Seriously?” Mycroft was the embodiment of patient exasperation.

“Yeah, well, if I hadn’t dived, Manchester would have won. Can’t have Greater Manchester Police beating the Met, can we? I’d never live that down.”

“Well, I suppose the saving grace was that you won.”

“Yeah, we did, didn’t we?”

“Now please be still and let me clean your wound, Gregory. You are still leaking. I am not sure that you shouldn’t have gone to A&E. This looks like it could do with stitches.”

“You could call John?”

“Gregory, I am not calling John Watson at this hour.”

“It’s not ten o’clock yet. Think of how long I would have to wait in A&E…and you’d have to wait with me...”

“Fine, I shall text.” 

“How bad is it?” 

“Not serious but a football boot to one’s head does have the habit of slicing skin enough to mar your beauty for life, Gregory. I am not pleased. This will scar.”

“Yeah, but come on, Myc. It’ll give me a roguish look.”

Mycroft raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Rogue you may be, but roguish you may not look if it means you will be scarred for life.” Mycroft stopped speaking for a moment, and Greg was alarmed to see he was serious, deadly serious. 

“Mycroft, it’s just a little…”

“No, Gregory. I... I might have been sitting at your hospital bedside tonight, not trying to clean a wound to your eyebrow. If you had sustained a kick to your head, you might have…”

“Been concussed… I get it, Mycroft. Look, I’m fine. Not concussed...not at all, I am not seeing double, no headache, nothing.”

“...been killed,” Mycroft said softly. 

“Mycroft…” Greg paused, gazing at the man who was trying to appear as though he wasn’t worried sick, but Greg knew better. He frowned. “Mycroft. I am okay,” he said carefully. “The kick was...unfortunate. But it happens. Why are you so cut up about it...sorry, no pun intended.”

“I knew a boy at college like you, reckless, loved football, played every chance he got. He got kicked in the head during practice. Practice, mind you. He was dead by the time the ambulance got him to hospital. A bleed on the brain, nothing anyone could do. They simply could not get him to hospital fast enough. I...I know you love football, but…”

“Oh, Myc. I’m sorry. I get it now. I…” Greg sighed, reaching to wrap his arms around his lover. “I love playing, and sometimes I don’t take as much care as I should. I’m no spring chicken anymore either. Maybe I should try to take it easier.”

“You shouldn’t have to compromise something you love for me.”

“Of course I should, Myc. Because I love you, more than the bloody football.”

It was worth a wound, Greg thought, it was worth many wounds,to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind the Iceman’s mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. Greg caught a glimpse of the great heart as well as the great brain. But, he wouldn’t put himself at risk again. It wasn’t fair on Mycroft. 

He endured John’s examination and subsequent gluing the skin together with medical grade superglue, suffering the stinging sensation and the discomfort because Mycroft deserved him to behave and cooperate, even when John did grip tests and shone his penlight into Greg’s eyes to check for concussion. John warned Mycroft to watch for drowsiness, or sudden inability to speak or raise his head or arms. He warned him to watch for sudden headaches or fainting. When he had gone, Mycroft returned with tea for them both. Greg was suddenly rather tired. He accepted the tea gratefully.

“I am sorry, Myc. Truly. I wasn’t trying to put myself in danger. I was playing a game, for the god’s own sakes. But, I will try not to get into any difficulties.”

“You will fail, miserably. And so you should. It isn’t right of me to interfere with the game you love.”

“Well, yeah, but at least I’ll try to take more care. Come on, Mycroft, Let’s go to bed. I need my rest, I am a wounded man.”

Mycroft gave him the side eye but smiled, indulgently. “Just promise me you will take more care and I shall live with that.”

“You have my word, Mycroft. Always. I adore you, love. Nothing is more important than you.”

Mycroft smiled indulgently. “Except, perhaps, beating Greater Manchester Police, 2 - 1 in the semi-final?” 

Greg grinned. “Should have seen my tackle though…” 


	3. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous posted a prompt 'seven', so here it is. Their seventh date and things are not going according to plan for Greg and Mycroft.

“Okay, mate, what’s up? This is a bit more than our weekly ‘moan about your Holmes’ evening, isn’t it?”

Greg regarded John over the rim of his glass and swallowed a healthy mouthful of beer before replying. The doctor was astute as always, and knew when something was wrong.

Greg sighed. “I dunno, John. I’ve about had it with His Majesty.”

“What? Why? I thought you two were permanent. In it for the long haul.”

“So did I, but it’s frankly not going anywhere.”

“Oh? How come?”

“This is our seventh date, John. Our seventh. I’ve heard of taking things slowly, but this is getting ridiculous. We’ve never even gone past a hand shake. We’ve never kissed, you know that?”

“What, not even goodnight?”

“Nope. And I’ve tried, you know, leaned forward slightly, given him the opportunity, little space in the conversation, but he’s never taken it.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“Why haven’t you taken the opportunity?”

“I...I was waiting for him. Didn’t want to rush him or anything. Didn’t want to scare him away.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for you to take the lead, you know? Right now, he’s probably waiting for the same thing you’re waiting for.”

“For me to…Nah, not him. I… really? You think so?”

“Yes, I do. Sherlock was the same, waiting for me while I was waiting for him. Those two are more alike than they care to admit, so I say go for it.”

000000000000000 

The black car whispered to a halt by the kerb and Greg got in, seeing Mycroft sitting primly on the seat, immaculately dressed as always.

“Good evening, Gregory,” he murmured. There was something subdued tonight though. Greg frowned.

“Evening, Mycroft.” 

“A lovely evening, is it not?”

“Not bad for spring. Weather’s been better this week. So, nothing too taxing in Whitehall this week?”

“Hm? Oh, no. Nothing too stressful. Anthea is taking more of the responsibility for the...less complex cases off my hands, so I have more time to myself.”

“That’s nice for you.” Mycroft was distracted, Greg noted. Not a good sign.

“Yourself?” Mycroft prompted.

“Nothing too bad, no.” Greg regarded him from a distance that was more than just the length of the car seat. Mycroft was not with him… “You okay?”

Mycroft turned to face him, looking pensive. “Probably not…” he said.

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

“I am not sure...I had hopes for us, Gregory…”

“So do I.” _Had? Oh damn, not good_. “Mycroft, what’s wrong? This will be our seventh date, and...honestly? I am not sure where this is going. We’ve not even…well… kissed…”

“I was wondering the same myself. Why have we not kissed, I wonder?”

“I was...waiting for you,” Greg admitted, tentatively. “I didn’t want to...well, push you.”

“And if I wanted to be pushed?”

“Oh.”

“Yes.” 

“So...um...you want to be...pushed? Are you sure?”

“If I was not sure, I would have said absolutely nothing, and let this carry on until it’s rather sorry end. I have never been successful at relationships, Gregory. I am neither sentimental nor am I romantic, and I have no idea how to navigate the waters of a partnership like this without muddying them with my ineptitude. I was hoping…” he paused, seeming to gather his wits before continuing. “I was hoping that the more experienced of us would take the lead…”

“Mycroft, I am not experienced. Married, sure. Married for nearly twenty years, with a misspent youth behind me. I am not used to dating, and I am not sure how to date you. You’re a Holmes. You’re not like anyone else. Normal rules do not apply where you and your brother are concerned.”

“I hope you have no intention of dating my brother…”

“No, but John has, and John and I talk to each other, you know. We discuss things, and we’re both agreed, half the time we have no idea how you tick, either of you.”

“You have discussed me?”

“Advice, Mycroft, I was looking for advice. John’s conclusion was that you two need clear communication, disclosure of intent, otherwise neither of us has a hope in Hell of getting any further than dinner. And don’t tell me you haven’t asked Anthea for advice concerning your dates? I won’t believe you.” Mycroft’s slight blush was all the answer he needed. “Not to mention that I’m not in your league… We go to swanky restaurants, and believe me, I like that. It’s nice to indulge in luxury. I have precious little of that in my life, and that’s the problem. I cannot afford you, you know that? Can’t afford to take us anywhere where you would feel comfortable. I can’t exactly take us to the cafe or the pub, can I? Cheap date? How crass would that be?”

“You...might.”

“What? Seriously?”

“I would go with you anywhere, Gregory. You do not understand.”

“Explain to me then. Come on, disclosure of intent and all that.”

“It matters not where we go. I would be with you.”

“Oh.” Greg stared at the man beside him. “I just thought… you don’t like noise or people, I figured a pub would be too much for you to cope with.”

“Thank you for your consideration, but honestly, I would settle for sandwiches in front of the fire in my study, as long as it was with you.”

“Mycroft, that’s…”

“Sentiment. Yes, I know.”

“...unexpected, is what I was going to say. Look, Mycroft, I think we’re both trying too hard and not communicating properly. We’re both scared of scaring the other one away, hm?” Mycroft stared straight ahead but his slight nod was not missed. “So let’s talk, hm? Look, after tonight, after dinner, take me home, hm?”

“Home?”

“Yeah, to yours. Or if that makes you uncomfortable, the Diogenese, or mine, but that might make you uncomfortable too. Look, somewhere we can talk. Just talk, about us, about what we want from each other, about where we see this going. We go on our dates, our dinners, and we talk about anything and everything and yet nothing at all that is relevant. We’ve shared our views on pretty much everything except us, except the important stuff. Seven dates, Mycroft. How has it taken us this long?”

“Because we are invested in this, Gregory. I would never have held out so much hope before this, before you. I would probably have given up by the third.” 

“It’s a lucky number, you know?”

“What is?”

“Seven. In some cultures, including ours, seven is a lucky number.” 

“A good job I picked somewhere appropriate then.” 

Greg looked at the name of the restaurant they had arrived at and laughed. “Seven Park Place? Really?”

“Michelin starred. The name seemed appropriate.” 

“Definitely, we are going home to yours after this,” Greg said. “You and I have a lot to talk about. So, tonight, we are both going to pick the seven things about each other that we most like. Okay? Think you can do that?”

“Already done,” Mycroft admitted as they were lead to their table. “Honour, integrity, compassion, kindness, your eyes, your hair, your…” he lowered his voice, “...body,” he murmured. 

“Really?” 

“Really, Gregory. Your turn.”

“Um...your hair and your eyes too. Your sense of justice, and your intelligence.”

“Three more I believe.”

“Your sense of humour.”

“Seriously?”

“You have a very dry sense of humour, Myc. What’s not to love? You are very witty, when you allow yourself to be.”

Mycroft tried not to preen at the praise. “Two more then,” he said as they were seated.

Greg boggled at the menu. “Generosity,” he said, ruefully. 

“I am not generous. Not really. This is a means to an end, and I have too much money. It means nothing to me beyond getting me the things in life that I want. Although, your integrity means you won’t allow yourself to be bought, which is refreshing. You still owe me two more.”

“One more. I am holding out for generosity. Look, Myc, you don’t need to do this. You know you don’t need to impress me. So why choose here?”

“Indulgence? Hedonism?”

“You could come here any time, you don’t need me.”

“I confess a certain desire to share.”

“Generosity, don’t argue.”

“May I add _misguided_ to your list?” 

Greg ignored him. “Sensual,” he said.

“I beg your pardon? Change the subject, now!” Mycroft was scandalised.

Greg couldn’t help the wide grin that blossomed. “Come on, Mycroft. You love fine clothing, fine food, and you have a wicked grin, and your eyes...You are a sensual person and...if you’ll let me, I’d like to explore that...with you. In private.” he smiled. “You expressed a wish for the most experienced person to take the lead, so I am doing as you asked.”

“So it would seem. I might hold you to that, later.”

“I hope so, Mycroft. I do hope so. You know something else I hope for?”

“I am sure you’re about to tell me.”

“Seven in the morning, Mycroft.”

“What about it? Is there some significance of that hour? A lucky time perhaps?”

“Well, make me breakfast at seven in the morning, and it will definitely have been a lucky time for us both.” 

Greg watched Mycroft blush again and somehow in his heart of hearts, he knew everything would work out just fine between them. 


	4. Discombobulated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is by way of a small tribute to one of my favourite comedians, Ken Dodd, who died recently aged 90. He was an icon during my childhood, and comes from Bokkle-Oran-Doove on Tumbr, whose prompt was Discombobulated. I have used it in a way, but with a little change, you'll see why.

"Damn it all, Ken Dodd's died," Greg announced. 

"Who?" Mycroft said. 

"He was 90.” Greg registered what Mycroft had said and frowned. “Ken Dodd? You know, Knotty Ash, the Jam Buttie mines, tickling stick, the Diddy Men?” 

The was a silence, during which Greg registered that there had been no reply from Mycroft. The man was staring at him strangely. "Gregory, are you quite well?" he asked, worry tinging his tone.

"Fine, why?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Bloody Hell, Mycroft, were you raised with no television?"

"Not at all..."

"What was it, Blue Peter and Newsnight?" 

"Certainly not, Gregory. I was allowed to watch a few dramas too."

"I Claudius and Upstairs Downstairs, hm?" Greg received a pointed look. 

"Mummy did not approve of frivolity. Panorama and Tomorrow’s World were allowable." 

"Seriously? Were you not allowed to laugh then?" 

"I realise certain areas of my viewing history are somewhat lacking..." 

"So how come you have no idea about Ken Dodd? You need an education, mate."

"It is simply that I may have missed certain televised offerings of dubious content, Gregory."

"Dubious content, hm?" 

"I know my mother's opinion often differs wildly from the rest of the general populous, but I fail to see why that might be considered a disadvantage in some cases. Frankly some offerings that make it to the small screen are not worth their budget."

"Yes, but this is Ken Dodd we're talking about here. He was amazing. He was a very funny comedian and also clean. There were a few suggestive jokes but never anything outright tasteless. Not many are like him. He was saucy, not crude. Seems like you can't tell jokes on TV these days without a peppering of smut or swearing."

"That is unfortunately rather true."

"You could take your kids to see him and you knew they'd never be exposed to inappropriate jokes, beyond a few old fashioned mother-in-law insults. Did you know, he was in the Guinness Book of Records for telling 1500 jokes in three and a half hours?" "Certainly a noteworthy feat for a comedian." 

"Yup. My grandparents took me to see him on stage once, Weston-super-Mare. He was so good, kept going for hours, sent the orchestra home eventually. Had us crying with laughter. Told the manager of the theatre to give him the keys and he'd lock up." 

"Great Heavens." 

"He was known for it, apparently." 

"Told the audience if anyone had to leave to catch a bus, he wouldn't be offended." "Are you able to give me an example of his humour, Gregory?" 

"Oh, well..." Greg dredged his memory. "He used to walk on stage brandishing a fluffy duster, one of those long ones on a stick, and say stuff like “how tickled I am, how tickled to see you all here tonight.” Or… “By Jove, missus, I am discomknockerated to see you here,” that was one of his. Must have based that one on discombobulated. He really loved long words. Created a few new ones too. Tattyfilarious, that was one. He had plenty of one-liners, but his delivery was unique." Greg got out his phone and did a quick search of YouTube. He found a recording and made Mycroft watch a five minute compilation of Dodd's best. "Did you know I have kleptomania? But when it gets bad, I take something for it. I haven't spoken to my mother-in-law for 18 months. I don't like to interrupt her..." By the time it was over, Mycroft was laughing along with Greg.

"I think I may have missed out on something there," Mycroft agreed.

"Well, it was fun. He wanted to entertain people. Might interest you to know that apparently he could have been an opera singer, his voice was good enough but they told him he looked too strange.”

“Strange?”

“Something like that, I’m sure I remember reading it somewhere. His teeth stuck out and they said he’d never get work looking like that, so he went into comedy.” Greg chuckled. “What a beautiful day,” he said. “What a beautiful day, for wearing a kilt and standing upside down in the middle of the road saying, ‘How’s that for a lampshade?’” 

Mycroft shook his head. “Well, there’s one thing I can say for him. He has obviously left behind a wonderful legacy. Not many can say their words will continue to entertain after they are gone.” 

Greg grinned. “Glad they entertained you too, you need to laugh more, love. You are so gorgeous when you laugh.” For that Mycroft had no reply, but a soft blush crept across his cheeks. Greg laughed and hugged him hard. Oh yes, he would definitely be introducing more comedy to Mycroft’s playlist… 


	5. Declaration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit angsty, this one. From Redgreyandpurple's prompt on Tumblr, Declaration. Don't worry, no sad endings here...

_I, Detective Chief Inspector Gregory Jonathan Holmes-Lestrade, of 15, Eaton Square, London, England, hereby revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions made by me and declare this to be my last will…_

Mycroft had to pause his reading the document in front of him for a moment. There was no universe in which this was right… _I should not be reading my husband's will... Gregory's last will and testament…_ But it was something he had to do, to check the details, to make sure there was no fault. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft continued. 

_I appoint my Husband, Alexander Jeremy Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade, of 15, Eaton Square, London, England, to be the Executor and Trustee of this my Will…_

_Oh, my God, Gregory...why on earth…?_ Mycroft had not realized that Greg wanted him to be his executor. Obviously, Gregory trusted him, had trusted that his last wishes would be carried out to the letter. _How can I read any more…?_

Mycroft firmed his mouth, and forced himself to read on. He had been trusted with this and he would not let his husband down. _Oh, but is is much harder than I thought it would be._ There was the usual list of permissions; permission to pay all debts, funeral expenses, to open and close bank accounts, etc, etc… 

_The entire residue of my estate I leave to my husband, Alexander Jeremy Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade, including my share of our property, 15, Eaton Square, London, England, if my spouse survives me by thirty (30) days, for his own use absolutely._

_Jesus, Gregory, there is no earthly point…_ Mycroft could not help the tears that brimmed. There was no way he would survive a week, never mind thirty days. _Whatever happens, take me with you,_ Mycroft thought. 

He had no idea how long he sat there, the papers on the desk, pain in his heart.... 

Mycroft was unaware of the door opening, and footsteps approaching. He turned, startled, to see Gregory there behind him. The man’s expression changed, worry replacing his usual smile. “Love? What on earth…? You okay?”

“I was…” Mycroft choked, coughed, and suddenly found himself engulfed in his husband’s warm arms, supporting him, caring for him. “Your will… You asked me to look it over, to check…”

“Christ, Myc. I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known it would upset you this much. What’s the matter…?”

“Oh, Darling,” Mycroft swallowed. “I’m sorry...I just...it’s hard. Reading this would mean you had….” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

“Died, yes, that is what a will is for, Mycroft,” Greg said gently. 

“I had no idea you wanted me as your executor.”

“Damn, didn't I ask you? Too much for you, love?”

“Possibly...I… I cannot conceive of any world without you in it that I could survive in.” 

“Oh, Gorgeous.” Greg hugged him hard, his own eyes brimming. “I am so sorry. Look, I can ask my solicitor to act as executor if you prefer? I had no idea you would be so...well, upset.”

“And why not? You are my life, Gregory. We are married. Without you...I am _nothing_.” Mycroft took a shaky breath. “But you asked me to do this, and I know where my duty lies. I shall do my utmost to make sure your wishes are carried out.”

“I know you will, and I trust you, but I am not having you so upset about doing this. If it’s too much, I shall ask my solicitor to act instead.”

“It is only too much because I do not want to even think about losing you, Gregory. I would be lost without you…”

“Oh, love. I am here, I am alive and well and…” Greg leaned in and huffed a soft breath in Mycroft’s ear. He felt the man shiver. “Come on, let me show you just how alive I am, hm?” 

“I…” Mycroft was fast succumbing to his husband’s attempt at distraction. “Very well…” he murmured breathlessly. “Just… promise me…”

“If I can, I will.”

“Promise me, if things...well...If you…”

“Darling, none of us know what the future holds. That was why I finally allowed you to persuade me to sort out my will, to make sure things, and people, were taken care of. I can promise you this, Mycroft. I will never deliberately leave you, how would that be?”

“As much as one can hope for,” Mycroft said softly. “Thank you, Gregory. I am sorry.” 

“Don’t ever apologise for showing me you care, my love. Come on, I’m not dead yet, and far from it.” Greg reached and took his husband’s hand, entwining their fingers. “Let me show you, Gorgeous…” Relentlessly, Greg pulled his husband flush against him, letting him feel the very obvious erection through the fabric of his jeans, running his hands down Mycroft’s back, sliding his palms under clothing and across warm skin. He pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s lips as he pulled them close, and smiled into it. “Love you, Gorgeous. Love that you care. I adore you...” 

“I adore you too, Gregory. I love you so very, very much…”


End file.
